


Care and Feeding of a Loser

by garden_hoe21



Category: MMA - Fandom, Mixed Martial Arts RPF
Genre: BDSM, Blood, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Bodily Fluids, Combat, F/M, Genderplay, Id Fic, M/M, Mixed Martial Arts, fragile masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 05:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4551771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garden_hoe21/pseuds/garden_hoe21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He will break. Let him break. Let his ego finally crack open and let all the dripping, sticky, syrupy sweet id dribble over you. Bathe in his complete and utter failure. Smooth it into your skin like Elizabeth Bathory did virgins’ blood.</p><p>Give him a chance to be vulnerable. Give him a chance to be small. Masculinity is fragile as a robin’s egg, held tenderly in the palm of the hand. If he’s lost this contest of strength, of will, what does that make him? Certainly not a man. Not a woman. But Not Man is enough. He needs to be transfigured. He will be - must be - man again. But now he is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care and Feeding of a Loser

Walk to him cautiously. He’s hurting. He’s ashamed. He’s frightened. He is beaten, and broken, and only your sweet sweet sugar can stick all his pieces together again.

Be soft. Be sweet. _How are you doing?_ and _You did so good out there babe_ and _That must hurt_. He grunts, neither yes nor no, not meeting your eyes. Put your hand on his shoulder. He’ll flinch away, only a little, but do it anyway. Approach his space.

Blood still drips from his nose, a good right straight from the enemy. He doesn’t want to get it on you but you let him know you don’t mind. He won’t notice that you deliberately chose to wear dark colours. Ignore the distractions. Ignore the sounds from outside, the whoops coming from the Winner’s Circle. The sycophants, the hangers-on.

Don’t try to imagine the things inside his head. The replays that come over and over, the attempt and inevitable inability to recall the final shot that put him down.

Blood drips from his nose, onto his collarbone, down the swollen, still sweaty pectoral muscle. Don’t watch it on its journey down his rippling abdomen. Look up, instead, into his clearing eyes, which are finally meeting yours.

He sheds a single tear. Do not lick it up, but wipe it tenderly from his battered face with a gentle finger. When he turns his face to hide these shameful, feminine emotions, you may sneak a taste. Don’t let it make a sound, even as the salt of his shame coats your tongue and you shiver.

Hold a rag and some ice to his aching, dripping face. Let his swollen cheek rest against your thigh. Let the tears come. Let him shake. Let him whimper.

He will break. Let him break. Let his ego finally crack open and let all the dripping, sticky, syrupy sweet id dribble over you. Bathe in his complete and utter failure. Smooth it into your skin like Elizabeth Bathory did virgins’ blood.

Give him a chance to be vulnerable. Give him a chance to be small. Masculinity is fragile as a robin’s egg, held tenderly in the palm of the hand. If he’s lost this contest of strength, of will, what does that make him? Certainly not a man. Not a woman. But Not Man is enough. He needs to be transfigured. He will be - must be - man again. But now he is not.

It will take him time to reconstruct his little ego, piece by piece, as it was so brutally dismantled. You must strike first. Seize this opportunity to revel in his loser sweat before it’s washed away.

The first lick, up his ribs, down his neck, tracing his tattoos, will leave him confused. This is normal. His poor head has sustained so many blows. Stroke his aching head tenderly as you lay him down. Do not mount him. Not so soon, not again. Instead, lie next to him. Unbutton or pull down your top, just enough to give his head a resting place against your soothing skin. Your heartbeat will calm him like the vulnerable, newborn infant he has temporarily become.

Meet his eyes, gently and lovingly as you smooth your hands over his back, his ribs, his battered beauty, down to the rim of his shorts, slipping your fingers inside. Remove his jock strap. He doesn’t need it.

His cock will fail, as he has failed in his earlier pathetic attempt of phallic dominance. This is to be expected: Do not allow it to deter you. Take the soft, pathetic member in your hand. Hold it, like a small sad animal desperately in need of your warmth. Touch your forehead to his and breathe, slowly, gently.

Press his split, bleeding mouth to yours. Try not to moan as you taste the essence of all that remains within him. Simply accept the gift.

Perhaps you may grip his breast, smearing his blood around until it forms an appetizing glaze, gently circling his wet nipple with the tip of your finger, letting him experience this pleasure. He will not panic. He is Not Man. Caress them with your tongue and let him moan, deep in his belly, the way only a Not Man can.

This is the ultimate submission, the ultimate gift: he has given his body and soul. Take your time exploring this body, broken and bloody for the pleasure of the crowd. Take your time exploring his soul, now the walls are down. And of course, after he has given so freely of himself, give him all the pleasures of Not Man.

**Author's Note:**

> I've always noticed that in sports, and combat sports in particular, there are certain things we don't do. In MMA, one of those taboos is interfering with the sanctity of the loser's space. I wondered what would happen if we were to desanctify that.


End file.
